


Even in Darkness

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Psychological Trauma, Trauma, gotham no man's land is a dark dark place and the point of no return, hints of romance/crushing, mostly just Lucius trying to be kind and ending up out of his depth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-21 00:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Lucius comforts Ed after the removal of Hugo Strange's control chip.(speculation based on S05E06 promo pics)





	1. Even in Darkness

 

Plans to deal with Eduardo and his less than ethical, presumably black ops, military team are well underway. The library table, mostly clean of blood from its brief time as an operating table, has been covered in pages and props as Jim, Barbara Kean, Alfred and the others make preparations for the coming battle. A unification that under different circumstances Lucius might have considered a joy to see.

As it is, all he can think is how it’s been over two hours since Edward left to use the bathroom, and no-one else has noticed he has yet to return.

It takes Lucius a while to track down the old library staff quarters in the gloom – Jim had vetoed the electrical restoration of the building in case it attracted too much attention – but once he does he finds the en suite bathroom somewhat illuminated at least by the milky sunshine peeking through the half-open blinds across the window.

The door isn’t shut, let alone locked, so he can’t help seeing inside.

Ed is hunched over the sink, hands gripped tight either side of the dirty porcelain, green-clad shoulders rising and falling as he takes breath after heavy breath.

The matted clump of hair where Lucius had done his best to stitch up the incision he’d made to extract the control chip glistens red as a shaft of light catches it and Lucius’ stomach turns at the sight. It seems impossible he’d managed such an operation with such limited equipment and only the very basics of First Aid training. But the library and the meagre tools on offer were all they had and Lucius the only one with the technical knowledge required to disable the device. So he’d done it, because he had to. Simple as that. And if the experience left him feeling shaky and sick he can’t even imagine what Ed himself must be going through having suffered not only the removal of the device but all that having it entailed. The violation, the confusion, the _pain_.

It’s a wonder the man is still standing.

“Ed.” Lucius steps in and reaches out, intending a soft touch to Ed’s shoulder, hoping to offer some comfort.

But Ed jolts round before Lucius can reach him, hands flying out and smacking Lucius away.

“Don’t touch me!” Ed yells, crashing back into the sink with force enough to bruise, eyes wild, teeth bared.

Lucius lifts his hands at once.

“Okay,” he says. Quiet. Holding still.

It was a mistake to arrive without warning. Foolish of him. No one could suffer the kind of trauma Ed has been through these past weeks and not end up on edge, at _best_. Not even the most hardened of criminals. And Edward Nygma is far from that.

“Okay,” Lucius says again, in case Ed missed him the first time, but Ed is already blinking and breathing in through his nose, visible palpitations in his chest calming as he recognises Lucius and swallows his panic.

“Lucius, I –” Ed stutters, breathless.

Lucius. It’s so rare for Ed to use his name. Hearing it makes all of this more real somehow. There’s no game here, no battle of wits, no smug banter, not even on Ed’s side, it’s all just blood and horror, the constant prickle of fear and the taste of bile in the back of your throat.

If Lucius could wish this nightmare away for Ed, for all of them, he would. He longs to be ‘Foxy’ again.

“I’m sorry,” Ed is telling him. “I thought – I – I don’t –”

“It’s alright,” Lucius insists, slowly lowering his hands.

But Ed just stares at him, red rings dark and vivid and not at all obscured by his glasses prominent about his eyes, and gives a bark of laughter.

“No,” he answers, lips stretching in a wide, painfully unhappy smile, hands creeping behind him to grasp the sink again. “No, _nothing_ about _any of this_ is even remotely _alright!_ ”

Lucius drops his gaze. Chastised.

“No, of course not, I know. I just –”

“No, you _don’t_ know,” Ed snaps. “You can’t possibly have any idea! I – he –”

When Lucius looks back Ed has a hand to his temple. There’s dust and grime all over his black gloves but he doesn’t seem to notice. Were they the same ones, Lucius wonders, that he’d worn when he’d been forced to destroy Haven? The ones he’d used, unknowing, to handle the RPG case they’d found together? And why, god, why hadn’t Lucius noticed then that something was wrong? He’d recognised Ed was unkempt, slightly more anxious than usual perhaps, but he’d put it down to the general lawlessness of the city taking its toll. If he’d only kept Ed with him then could he have helped? Could he have prevented the manhunt and increasingly traumatic confrontations that followed? That might have spared Ed some of his suffering at least.

“He cut into my _head_ ,” Ed goes on. “He cut it right open!” He moves his flattened hand in a slicing motion, mimicking the cut that, from Jim’s description Lucius can only assume had been a _full_ craniotomy, as opposed to the minor one Lucius had performed, and Ed’s voice wavers for a moment over this one of many horrors Strange had subjected him to. One Lucius and the others had failed to prevent. “More than once, presumably, but the last time I –” Ed grits his teeth. “I was awake. I couldn't move, but I could _feel_ it.” His hand scrapes through his hair to the back of his skull. “I can _still feel it_.” He makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan, eyes pressing shut, and lifts his other hand to join the first. “God it won’t stop! Why can’t I just make it _stop?_ ”

His elbows tuck in front of his face as he rubs around the top of his head and Lucius, fearful of his amateur stitching being dislodged, rushes over and tugs at Ed’s wrists.

“Don’t, Ed. You’ll hurt yourself.”

The words sound weak and hollow in the face of Ed’s existing pain and Lucius isn’t surprised when Ed blinks his eyes open and laughs them away. But he doesn’t resist when Lucius draws his hands down between them, which is something.

“Ed, listen to me.” Lucius finds Ed’s gaze and refuses to leave it. “You’re right. I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like for you, what you must be feeling right now. But I _can_ give you some facts that might help.” Ed’s mocking smile dips and something desperate flashes in his eyes. “For instance,” Lucius starts, hoping to god this _will_ help. “I examined you myself before removing the chip so I can assure you you have no scar. There’s no sign of anything Hugo Strange did to you.”

“You’re saying I _imagined_ it?” Ed spits and he sounds, to Lucius’ dismay, more afraid than angry.

“Not at all,” Lucius hurries to explain. “I have no doubt the atrocities that man committed were exactly as you remember. And even if I didn’t believe you, Jim said –” Now Lucius falters, as shocked as he was when Jim first told him. “– he said he saw Strange stapling you up when he found you.” Ed shivers under Lucius’ hold, eyes growing damp, but he sets his jaw and waits in silence for Lucius to continue. “What I’m trying to say is that Strange must have accelerated the healing process somehow. Incredible but not implausible. Who knows how many scientific achievements the man may have stumbled upon during his unethical experiments? Plenty, I’m sure, that could be a real benefit to humanity at large that instead he chooses to use for his own sordid purposes. In this case, however, it means you can be confident that, physically at least, you are fine now. Or, well, save for my inexpert stitching, for which I can only apologise. And perhaps, a lack of sleep. And regular meals…”

This is turning to babble so Lucius trails off.

But when Ed remains still, expression unchanging, Lucius soon finds the silence unbearable. Perhaps he’s made things worse?

“It’s cold comfort, perhaps,” he starts up again. “But I thought an objective fact might –”

“No.” Ed shakes his head, twisting free of Lucius’ hold but only so he can lean in and grab Lucius instead, shaking hands clasping his upper arms. Not quite tight enough to bruise but getting there. “I mean, yes,” he corrects, closing his eyes briefly, voice tight. “It does help.” His eyes are softer when they find Lucius again and his lips crack into a weak attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”

It’s impossible to consider Ed a criminal here. When Lucius looks at him he doesn’t see a killer, doesn’t see the villain who has caused harm to many including Lucius himself. Lucius sees only a broken man who has suffered more than anyone can be expected to endure.    

“Ed.” Lucius keeps his voice very soft and stays still, but not tense, within Ed’s hold. “I am so sorry this happened to you. If you need to talk, or if there is anything I can do to help, I want you to know I’m here.”

Ed searches his eyes as though seeking a lie, a trick or a hidden agenda. But when Lucius stays resolute under the scrutiny Ed draws back with a breath that catches in his throat. He parts his lips – perhaps to answer, perhaps simply in shock. Either way the gesture is lost a second later when a high-pitched choking sound escapes him and he darts forward, arms snaking about Lucius’ neck, face buried in the crook of Lucius’ shoulder as he collapses into loud, wracking sobs.

Although he’d half expected a reaction like this, and much sooner to be honest, Lucius is still shocked by the violence of it. Particularly as he’s never been a tactile man, preferring to show care and affection from a distance, in shrouded words and deeds. Not unlike Ed himself Lucius has often suspected, in normal circumstances. Which means this out of character breakdown only serves to emphasise how _abnormal_ the situation is. Ed has reached a point far, far beyond his ability to withstand, alone at least.

And Lucius has promised to help him.

So he will.

“Okay,” he murmurs, nodding to himself as much as Ed as he wraps his arms around Ed’s shaking body. “Okay,” he adds again – final acceptance that this is happening, that they’re doing this. The word gets lost in the rising tempo of Ed’s cries but that doesn’t matter. What Lucius says now isn’t important, all that matters is that he’s _here_.

So he whispers a stream of nonsense – _you’re safe now, it’s over, don’t worry, shhh, you’re safe I promise, it’s over, shhh, it’s over, it’s over_ – until Ed slowly but surely starts to quiet and finally sags, weak and limp and spent, against him.

That’s when Lucius catches a flash of movement in the bathroom mirror opposite.

He shifts his head to see, pressing a hand to the back of Ed’s neck to hold him in place so he knows Lucius isn’t trying to break their connection, and meets the anxious gaze of Jim Gordon in the glass.

Jim has his gun out and gripped in both hands but it’s already lowered.

It makes sense someone would investigate, Ed has been very loud, and it’s only natural Jim would come armed. This is the nature of the city now – danger around every corner. You can never be too careful.

Even now Lucius can see Jim’s hands tense around his weapon, lowered though it is, and his eyebrows lift at Lucius in question, mouth a grim line. Because although Ed is clearly docile in Lucius’ arms there could be all kinds of suspect meaning to their tableaux. Perhaps removing the chip didn’t free Ed from being controlled like they thought, or perhaps the chip or its removal or both has affected his brain and made him violent, perhaps there was a secondary chip they didn’t know about that’s just been activated, perhaps this is Lucius desperately holding Ed in check while he waits for rescue. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps – Lucius can see all the possibilities turning in Jim’s eyes.

And Lucius sees too the anguish there. The way Jim balks at the thought of having to kill Ed now. Jim Gordon the soldier – the man who will kill without hesitation if necessary, who has been ready to kill _Ed_ without hesitation if necessary – even he can’t reconcile the death of someone so abused, someone so callously manipulated and not responsible for their recent actions or current plight.

So when Lucius gives a small shake of his head to indicate Jim’s intervention is unnecessary he’s not surprised to see Jim breathe out in silent relief in response.

Jim gives a small, surprisingly tender, smile and nod and leaves them alone.

Hopefully he’ll tell the others as well – keep Ed and Lucius undisturbed.

Because Ed shouldn’t be alone right now.

And Lucius is, after all, no soldier, no vigilante or purveyor of underworld information. Lucius can’t fight, can’t offer tactical advice for guerrilla warfare, can’t give insight into their enemy’s military capabilities, identify strongholds or anything of immediate, practical use to the coming war.

But he can do this.

He can bring small comfort to someone who needs it.

So this is where he chooses to be. Here with Ed.

For as long as Ed needs.


	2. Knight Moves Nimbly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping his promise to help Ed cope with recent trauma, Lucius spends the night with him at the library.

Gotham is a city of screams.

This was true long before the bridges blew, they're just more frequent now. Background white noise, like sirens and gunshots and breaking glass.

Since moving here Lucius was sure he'd heard them all - screams of anger, fear, grief, betrayal and, increasingly, the wild, giddy, laughing screams of the insane.

But none of them compare to the raw, gut-wrenching howl rising from the man laid out on the threadbare mattress beside him.

He hadn't expected Ed to sleep easy. Who could after what he'd been through? But Lucius could never have predicted this.

The sharp, piecing _agony_ of it claws at him, leaving Lucius breathless and paralysed, heart slamming a hole through his chest.

Dear god, what should he do?

What _can_ he do?

He's read studies about waking people from nightmares, he knows the fear that it’s emotionally or psychologically damaging to do so is largely unfounded. But Ed's mind is in such a fragile state Lucius is hesitant to take the risk. And he’s far from confident an attempt would make a difference in any case. Ed is so lost in his terror it seems impossible anything could break through.

Then again, how can Lucius _not_ try when the man is in so much pain? There can't be anything worse than whatever’s promoting this endless anguish.

Anguish that Ed is somehow remaining utterly, uncannily, still throughout.

No tossing or turning, no kicking or thrashing at imagined enemies. Just the scream, escaping like a klaxon from his parted lips.

And he’d been quiet before. His breathing was a little shallow perhaps, but otherwise Lucius had been satisfied Ed was finally getting some of the much needed rest it had taken hours of persuasion and a promise to keep watch here on the ground at his side for Ed to agree to.

How can such intense suffering hit without warning and without Ed moving a muscle?

Made desperate by the shock, Lucius is just about to lean in and try and shake Ed free of his torment when the screaming stutters out and Ed’s eyes pop open.

His breath continues in short, frightened pants, reddened eyes – their dark rings harsh and lurid without the covering of his glasses – wide circles that fix on the ceiling. But still Ed doesn’t move.

“Ed?” Lucius tries and though he keeps his voice soft it sounds unpleasantly loud in the vacuum of quiet ushered in by the halt of Ed’s cry.

A gasp catches in Ed’s throat.

“ _Who’s there?_ ” he shouts without turning.

“It’s just me,” Lucius answers.

“Lucius?” Ed’s voice grows quieter, but it trembles. “Where are you?”

Lucius frowns. There’s hardly an inch between them, if Ed moved his head just a touch then he’d see. Barring the odd stretch Lucius has kept a near constant, cross-legged vigil at the edge of Ed’s mattress, broken only by the occasional glance at one of the chess books he’d taken from a nearby shelf and been attempting to use the flickering candlelight to read. An endeavour he’d not expected much success with and had discarded the instant the screaming began when he literally threw the volume across the room in panic.

Whatever the reason for Ed’s immobility Lucius decides it’s safer to work with it than question.

“I’m here,” he says, leaning into Ed’s line of sight.

Ed latches onto him, but only with his eyes.

“Lucius I – I can’t move.” Despite this pronouncement Lucius can see Ed start to shake all over. “I can’t move!” he repeats, voice rising.

Patently he _can_. Ed couldn’t speak otherwise. So why –?

Oh.

Oh of course.

This was how Jim found him with Hugo Strange – awake but unmoving, body locked in place by some kind of advanced anaesthesia. No doubt Ed had been reliving the horror in his dreams and the memory is lingering.

Lucius considers himself a forgiving man, on the whole.

But Hugo Strange has too much to answer for.

Thomas and Martha. Karen Jennings. All those poor souls at Arkham Asylum. Lord knows what else. Not to mention everything Bruce has suffered as a result of the man’s crimes.

And now this.

If the deranged, so-called scientist is killed in the crossfire of the battle to come Lucius won’t lose a wink of sleep about it. Save, perhaps, to lament the speed of such a death.

“Ed, no, you were having a nightmare,” Lucius explains. Simple and to the point so Ed won’t have to labour under this misapprehension a moment longer. “But it’s over now. You’re safe. You can move, I promise.”

“No. No I can’t,” Ed insists, fast and high-pitched. “It – it must be Strange! He found me while I was sleeping. Dosed me up again and – oh god, has he cut me back open? He has, hasn’t he? I can feel the air inside my head.” Small bubbles of tears well up and trickle free from the corners of his eyes. “Am I bleeding? It doesn’t hurt yet – why – why doesn’t it hurt?”

For a moment Lucius can’t say anything, overcome by how _real_ this nightmare is for Ed.

“Ed,” Lucius manages eventually, but Ed is staring through him now, lost in fear of remembered pain. “Ed look at me,” he goes on, resting a hand on Ed’s chest and shifting to better fill his gaze. “Look at me.” The pressure across Ed’s green striped shirt doesn’t seem to register, but he does meet Lucius’ eye again at least. “No one’s cut you open. No one’s even touched you, I swear.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Ed chokes.

“I’m not,” Lucius tells him. “I wouldn’t.”

There’s no reason Ed should trust this. Paranoia really is the only logical reaction to the complete, invasive manipulation of mind and body he’d undergone as a puppet to Strange’s device. He’d been at the mercy of literally anyone who had access to the chip and hadn’t even known until right at the end. How could you possibly come away from that experience _without_ a lingering suspicion that anyone, at any time, might somehow reveal themselves as a hidden puppeteer?

But even so, there must be something in the way Lucius protests his honesty that Ed finds reassuring because he doesn’t argue and the fearful accusation in his eyes starts to fade.

 “Here,” Lucius adds, keeping his voice slow and even. “I can prove it.”

He lifts his other hand so Ed can see, then very slowly touches his fingers to Ed’s forehead and runs them up through his hair and round to the crumpled edge of the jacket Ed had folded as a makeshift pillow.

“Can you feel that?” Lucius asks, rubbing along the back of Ed’s perfectly whole and unblemished head. Miraculously healed by the same science that had inflicted the damage in the first place. Save for the small patch of stitches where Lucius removed the chip at least, which he is careful to avoid.

With each touch Ed’s breath grows a little calmer, tension bleeding out of him.

“Yes,” he answers, thick with relief.

Lucius stills his hand and waits while Ed adjusts to this new perspective, the rhythm of his own breath and the slowing pace of Ed’s gradually falling in sync.

“No one else has been here?” Ed asks.

Lucius shakes his head.

“Just you and me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve been awake here beside you the whole time. Just like I promised.”

There’s a further pause as Ed accepts this.

"Then,” he starts again, quiet now, watching Lucius with eager, hopeful eyes. Trusting, with the deep and desperate faith of a child, that Lucius will have the answers he needs to make things right. “Why can't I move?"

"I told you, you can," Lucius says. Calm and patient. He's no expert, but it seems like freeing someone from this kind of fear isn't something you can rush. "How do you think you're talking to me right now?"

He lifts an eyebrow, making a challenge of the question. That might help – get Ed’s mind to focus on the detail of his situation instead of the emotion.

Ed's brow starts to furrow as he considers, working through the evidence like a puzzle, just as he had back at Haven.

“Oh,” he mutters as the logic dawns on him. “Yes.”

He goes on to set his lips in a frown of concentration – trying to convince his body of the truth, Lucius assumes.

“Here, start with something small.” Lucius moves his hand from Ed’s chest and threads his fingers into the ones lying slack at Ed’s side. “Grab my hand.”

Ed’s frown deepens, but after a moment his fingers start to twitch and finally clamp tight around Lucius’ knuckles. He lets out a gasp – part relief, part achievement, part exhaustion – and they hold each other a few seconds longer, Lucius letting Ed’s grip tighten just shy of painful. Until in one swift motion Ed hauls himself up and breaks free, shucking off his thin blanket and turning away. He curls his still booted feet – Lucius had been unable to convince him to remove any clothing beyond his gloves, jacket and glasses – under himself and links both hands behind the back of his head, open shirtsleeves trailing from his arms.

“Goddamn it!” Ed moans. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Because I can’t – I can’t live like this.”

His next couple of breaths come out in painful stutters and Lucius can’t help reaching across to rest a hand on Ed’s shoulder, hoping to ease the discomfort.

“It’ll get easier,” he says, consoling. “You just need to give it time.”

But gentle is the wrong tactic here and Ed jerks away from the touch, jumping to his feet and scowling as he turns.

“How would you know?” he snaps. “Or is medicine your fabled expertise?” It’s meant as an insult not a question so Lucius doesn’t try to answer, just flattens his lips in apology. “Besides,” Ed goes on. “In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re on the brink of a _war_ here!” He waves a hand in a vague circle, a gesture outwards to encompass the city. “I don’t –” He turns, head shaking, and makes for the study-cum-operating-cum-war table where his glasses are neatly folded and waiting for him. “ _Time_ is a luxury we don’t have!” Ed continues to rage as he snatches the lenses from the table, thrusting them onto his face with both hands. “If I am to have any hope of surviving what’s coming I – I need to get over this _now!_ ”

In a fierce, unexpected move that makes Lucius flinch Ed slams the balls of his hands against the table surface, causing the candelabras, radio transmitters and various other instruments across it to wobble and shake.

A tense silence settles across the room as the last item falls still, broken only by the sharp, heavy sound of Ed breathing through his nose. Then Ed grips the table edge and takes a step back, bowing his head between his outstretched arms.

“I don’t even know why it’s affecting me like this,” he mutters. Quiet enough that Lucius dares to pull himself up and start moving round the mattress towards the other man. “It’s so… so pathetic. So – _stupid!_ ” Lucius stops close enough to see Ed’s nose scrunch up in distaste. “Stupid, _stupid Ed,_ ” he spits, straightening up and fixing an accusatory glare at the mirror in the corner of the room. “ _He’s_ the weak one, not me!” He stabs a finger in the direction of the glass. “Why would I –?”

All the anger drains from Ed’s face as he cuts off.

“Unless… unless that’s it…” he whispers. “Yes. Yes it must be.” His pointing finger draws back, bobbing up and down in time with unseen deductions Lucius can’t follow. “Whatever Strange did must have switched us. Which means that I’m –” He flattens his other hand to his chest, the shadow of a scowl returning. “No, that can’t – but it has to be. It’s the only explanation. And wait, wait –” Both hands lift to the side of his face, fingers splaying. “Maybe this is good. I just need to bring him back, that’s all. Let _him_ deal with this.”

“Who?” Lucius asks, moving to Ed’s side.

“The other me,” Ed tells him, spreading his hands as he turns. An unspoken ‘duh!’

Night terrors, paranoia and mood swings as a result of trauma Lucius can understand. But talk of a second self? This is an unexpected turn to the bizarre, even for Ed. Perhaps Strange’s tinkering inflicted more damage than they thought.

“Oh don’t look at me like that!” Ed says, pointing finger turning in Lucius’ direction. “You know what I’m talking about. You were there when I set him free.” He tuts when Lucius fails to be illuminated by this. “That night in your car?” he goes on, slowing his speech, like a teacher trying to explain something mundane to a troublesome child. “You saw him being born.”

A night in Lucius’ car can only mean that time after the police cadet’s aborted graduation, when Ed held Harvey Bullock hostage to force Lucius to play his high stakes ‘game.’ But nothing else Ed mentions relates to Lucius’ memory of that day at all.

Is this Strange’s influence confusing Ed’s recollection, or some deeper psychological issue that pre-dates recent events?

Whatever it is, Ed is no longer in the throes of a debilitating flashback at least. Lucius supposes that makes this a positive development.

“I remember you struggling to come to terms with killing a man you cared about,” Lucius starts. Perhaps if he recounts his understanding of the night in question Ed might elaborate on his own. Ed blinks at the mention of his past turmoil over Oswald’s death and draws his hands to his sides, shoulders tensing. “You chose murder and infamy as a means of doing so.” This has Ed's shoulders relaxing again and his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “Gave yourself a criminal alias.”

“What? No,” Ed counters. “That was him. That was The Riddler.”

What?

“But Ed… _you’re_ The Riddler.”

“ _No_ I – well yes but –” With a cry somewhere between a growl and a hiss Ed throws up both hands, fingers crunching into his palms. “God, why is this so _difficult_ for people to understand?” He drops his arms with a heavy, put-upon sigh and glares at Lucius. “I thought you of all people would be smart enough to –” Ed purses his lips as he works to bring his frustration in check. “Look, it’s simple,” he starts again, gripping the frame of his glasses in one hand to realign them. “Edward Nygma is… he’s an idiot. He’s a soft, pathetic _loser_ and a coward.” He pauses, eyes still on Lucius. A teacher again, waiting for the facts they have painstakingly spelt out to sink in. “But the Riddler,” he continues. “He’s…” His eyes drift away for a moment. “He’s cooler.” He twirls a hand, regal fashion, above his head and holds it there. “Confident.” His lips curl as he maintains the pose. “He’s smarter. Braver.” A sudden resurgence of fear enters his eyes and his hand and smile fall together. “He was tortured for _hours_ by Sofia Falcone and never broke.” He makes a fist with his hand and holds it below his chin, as though plucking an invisible thread from the air and clutching it to him. “He wouldn’t let this – this _nonsense_ with Hugo Strange get to him. He’s – he’s –”

Lucius remembers. Ed in the back of his car.

_Have you always been foxy, Foxy?_

His heart going out to the man despite the gun and the games, the torture and the killing, because he’d looked so lost. A brilliant mind seeking answers in all the wrong places.

_All my life I felt like there was someone inside of me…_

“He’s the stronger part of you that you spoke about,” Lucius finishes.

“Yes!” Ed stretches a flattened palm towards him. “See? You _do_ understand.”

“I’m starting to.”

Split personality disorders – or is the term dissociative? – are no more Lucius’ expertise than medicine or explosives. It’s possible Ed could have been suffering from one all along and Lucius never knew.

But – Ed’s behaviour doesn’t seem to quite fit that mould.

What else had Ed told him that night about this person inside him?

“So this… this other part of you. The Riddler. He’s the person you told me only Penguin could see?”

“Exactly,” Ed nods. Then his gaze flickers away again. “Oswald…” His eyes soften. “Oswald always sees the truth of me. He’s the one who figured out, who _knew_ , that I wasn’t responsible for Haven.” He tilts his head, thoughtful. “He always knows.”

Lucius has always sensed a hidden depth to Ed’s feelings for Penguin and this speech only reinforces that opinion. The warmth is a surprise though. Ed doesn’t even try to conceal it, his affection is right there in the gentle curl of his lips and hushed tone of his voice. A marked difference to the last time they’d spoken of the man, when Ed’s endearments had been reluctant, almost angry. It makes Lucius wonder if something happened between Ed and Oswald recently. Something beyond the typical, petty spats they’ve grown famous for.

It was Oswald who tipped off Jim Gordon about Strange, confirming Jim’s suspicions that Ed was being framed. Perhaps it was that. Ed recognised Oswald had been trying to help him. Or something more. Jim said Strange had access to Ed because he’d been treating him for a near fatal stab wound. That’s what Oswald told him. But why was Strange treating Ed in the first place? And how did Oswald know?

But these are mysteries for another time. It’s not Ed’s relationship to Oswald in question right now, it’s his relationship to himself.

If Ed’s identity problems are getting in the way of his recovery then Lucius needs to understand them, or he’ll never be able to help Ed through this. And he wants to help Ed. He really does. He promised.

“So… Penguin calls you Riddler, does he?” Lucius presses. “If that’s who he sees you as?”

“Hmmm?” Ed blinks back to him. “Oh. Yes. Sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Well, I haven’t always been Riddler with him, obviously.” Ed shrugs. “And… and sometimes he’s stubborn. And besides –” He waves a hand, dismissive. “We have history. Sometimes I – sometimes The Riddler is willing to allow Oswald certain… inaccurate familiarities.”

Does Ed notice his pronoun slip ups and hesitations? It’s hard to tell.

“That’s… surprisingly magnanimous of him,” Lucius notes. Idle banter while he tries to piece everything together.

“Yes, well. He’s an enigma,” Ed quips back, lifting his hands, palms up, either side of him.

This seems to put an end to the discussion for Ed as he goes on to perch on the edge of the table, fingers tapping against his lips. Returning to thoughts of how to restore this Riddler self of his presumably.

He’s calm again in any case, so Lucius risks pressing the issue.

“Does he make these allowances for anyone else?”

A momentary wrinkle of irritation mars Ed’s forehead, but it smoothes away as he turns.

“Not usually,” he answers. His hand strokes around his jaw as he speaks and his eyes narrow in thought. “One time for Barbara Kean. Otherwise no.”

Lucius files this away.

“I see…”

He thinks back to their different encounters, trying to recall if the topic of Ed’s name had ever come up in significant fashion.

There’s only been one time – when Ed upbraided him in the gas chamber at Arkham for describing his surname as 'funny.' The fact doesn't seem relevant here.

“When we were together at Haven,” he continues before Ed dismisses him again and the conversation loses momentum. “I called you ‘Ed’ and you didn’t correct me. Do I take it that means The Riddler was absent that day?”

The wrinkle in Ed’s brow returns and brings some friends.

“No, that – that was him…” Ed pulls his hand away, exposing his frown. “I mean… it must have been…”

“You don’t know?”

This puts Ed instantly on the defensive.

“Of course I know!” he snaps, jolting upright and pressing a finger to the bridge of his glasses to slide them higher up his nose. “That was Riddler not me. He just – doesn’t mind what _you_ call him because –” Ed tries to hide his struggle to answer by turning the discussion back on Lucius. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

Lucius mimics Ed’s stance and straightens up as well, undeterred by the aggression.

“I’m just trying to figure out the logistics,” he explains, folding his hands across his waist. “If you are made up of two distinct personalities then there must be rules, laws that govern your dual existence, surely?”

Ed opens his mouth, closes it again, then looks at Lucius sideways on.

“This isn’t some kind trick,” Lucius assures him. “I just want to know.”

From the way Ed tilts his head and licks his lips, eyebrows folding not with suspicion so much as bemusement, Lucius gets the sense no-one has tried to define his condition like this before. Maybe not even himself.

The fact Ed is hesitating and not shouting him down suggests he’s not adverse to a more in depth self examination, providing Lucius pitches it right.

Make it a puzzle, Lucius thinks. A puzzle the two of them are trying to solve, like at Haven.

“For instance.” He starts. Calm. Analytical. “When you switch, is it random or does something prompt it?”

“Um…” Ed’s hands fidget at his sides, thumbs rubbing circles across his fingers. He’s anxious. No, Lucius thinks, he’s never done this before. Lucius holds his breath as he waits to see if Ed will engage, if he’s willing to try some self-reflection, or if he’ll just reject the matter out of hand. “No it’s never random,” Ed starts, pausing to flick his eyes to Lucius. Whatever he’s braced for – disgust, ridicule, disbelief – he doesn’t find it and that seems to encourage him, voice growing clearer as he continues. “I suppose, intense emotion is something of a common denominator.”

“What kind of emotion?”

Ed rolls his eyes.

“Well it’s hardly going to be the warm and fuzzy kind, is it?” he mocks, but goes on to consider the query regardless. “It’s, you know…” He circles a hand in the air as he lists. “Fear. Stress. Anger…” He pauses, biting the inside of his lip. “Guilt,” he adds, notably quieter.

Such as over killing a friend. Or even, killing at all?

Members of the GCPD are fond of lambasting Gotham’s most wanted for the remorselessness of their crimes but, something tells Lucius it’s never been that simple with Ed.

Nothing is ever simple with Ed.

“Can you choose to change?”

“I… have done,” Ed nods. He’s answering faster now. Responding to the logical, matter-of-fact nature of the scrutiny. “But he’s usually the, uh, instigator.”

“Riddler is?”

A nod.

“He and I… don’t always get along.”

Interesting.

“Does that mean when you’re… in control, The Riddler is still present somehow? And vice versa?”

This one Ed really has to think about, arms folding across his chest as he chews it over.

“The Riddler, he’s… he’s always _there,_ ” he offers, eventually. “He always knows Ed’s thoughts, shares his memories.” He licks his lips – a quick flash of his tongue above and below – and turns his head. “Knows what he’s feeling,” he adds, fingers of his left hand tapping out an anxious rhythm across his upper arm. “But with Ed it’s different. He doesn’t always know what The Riddler thinks. Or what he’s done. Not completely.”

Oh.

“Wait,” Lucius cuts in. “Does that mean – when you’re The Riddler, Ed isn’t always conscious?”

A weariness returns to Ed’s gaze as he turns back. He’s worried this is growing too much for Lucius to accept. But after a moment he shakes his head in reply anyway.

“Fascinating,” Lucius responds, unthinking.

Because it is.

To think Ed has built up such a complex narrative for himself, with mental constructs real enough to influence his memory, and been living out this double life all this time without anyone knowing. It’s astonishing.

Ed blinks at the outburst. Whatever he imagined Lucius’ reaction would be it clearly wasn’t that.

“Sorry,” Lucius mutters, cheeks flushing at the impropriety of the comment. It makes it seem Ed is no more than a specimen or scientific oddity he’s studying for goodness sake. “I didn’t mean –”

“No, it’s fine,” Ed interrupts, suddenly grinning. He takes a step closer, arms breaking apart so he can twirl both hands either side of him, ending with fingers angled upwards to his face. “I am.”

He chuckles, eyes and face brighter and more animated than Lucius has seen him since the chip was removed.

This analysis – it’s exciting him, Lucius realises. Ed is _delighted_ by such lengthy, candid discussion of himself.

It makes Lucius wonder if in truth Ed has wanted – or needed – to talk about this for a long time, but lacked anyone willing or capable of approaching the topic with the necessary reason. He doesn’t know whether to feel anxious or flattered at being the one Ed has deemed fit to unburden to.

“As to Ed’s cluelessness,” Ed goes on, unprompted. “Why do you think it took me so long to figure out someone _else_ was controlling me? Ed’s blacked out _lots_ of times. How was I to know these last ones were different?”

“Of course,” Lucius says, nodding in agreement while his mind turns over this new information. He also notes that Ed has been referring to both ‘Riddler’ and ‘Ed’ in third person for some time now, which seems telling. “So… you thought _The Riddler_ attacked Haven?”

Ed jerks back in surprise.

“No I thought _Ed_ did it. Why would I think it was Riddler?”

Lucius gives a single nod, accepting the correction.

“Yes, of course. Because you _were_ Riddler.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re Ed now?

“Evidently.”

There’s a fault in Ed’s logic here. An opening in the equation that could mean a breakthrough.

“But,” Lucius says. Softly, because he doesn’t want Ed to feel attacked. “If that was the case, wouldn’t you have _known_ Ed couldn’t be responsible? Didn’t you just say Riddler is always cognisant of Ed’s actions?”

“I –” Ed starts up, confident, then stalls, lips parted in an empty ‘O.’

Lucius fills the silence with further discrepancy.

“And if Ed is mostly absent when you’re Riddler, then how can you remember our time together at Haven?”

This is a bit of a gambit – Ed hadn’t said the ‘Ed’ version of him was _never_ conscious while ‘Riddler’ was in charge, but the implication was very much that his awareness was patchy. However, Ed had shown no sign that he didn’t recall any of their brief partnership the other day.

“He’s not _always_ absent,” Ed responds, offering the inevitable counter, though from the way he brings a thumb to his lips and starts to chew the nail it would seem he also finds this argument a little thin. “He must have gotten stronger, that’s all.”

“Ed must have done?”

“Yes.”

“The Ed you are now?”

“I – yes.”

“Stronger how? Enough to be fully cognisant, like Riddler is?”

“I – I don’t know… maybe.”

Ed’s enjoyment is rapidly fading, replaced by a painful uncertainly, bordering on more fear. Lucius hates to see that tension returning and part him of wants to stop, to take Ed in his arms and hush him calm again. But they’ve come too far to give up on this line of reasoning now. The only way out is through.

“But if Ed is fully conscious whenever you’re Riddler,” Lucius pushes. “And Riddler is conscious when you’re Ed. Then where’s the divide? What separates one from the other?”

“The way we act!” Ed snaps, hand bursting from his face to fly about in the air between them. “The way we are!”

“So you’re saying the way you are now isn’t the same as when you were with me at Haven?” Lucius asks. “Because Ed.” He holds a second to grab Ed’s eye. “I see no difference.”

Ed goes very still at this.

“You… you don’t…?” he mutters and for a moment he’s that lost and broken man in the back of Lucius’ car again, the world and his understanding of it turning in his eyes. Then he blinks hard and shakes the truth away. “No. _No_.” His expression hardens. “You just don’t _get it_. You’re useless after all. You’re all useless. You. Strange. Jim. Lee. It’s still just Oswald who understands.”

Lee? Lee Thompkins? How does she fit into this? Word is she died in the chaos of Jeremiah’s attack, but then, they’d thought that about Ed too. Could she also –? But no, this isn’t the time.

“You say that, and yet Penguin doesn’t call you Riddler.”

“I told you, he _does!_ Sometimes…” Ed sucks on his bottom lip. “Once…” he admits, another flash of uncertainty crossing his face. “But that doesn’t matter, the point is whatever he calls me he knows who I am, he knows when it’s me and… and when it’s not…”

“Does he though?” Lucius’ questions _are_ an attack now. A necessary evil to hasten the breaking point they’re fast approaching. “Or does he just look at you and see Ed Nygma, and only calls you differently because you ask him to?”

“He – no he –” Ed stares into the distance. Replaying memories of Penguin and himself Lucius imagines. Whatever he sees must be unwelcome because after a moment he presses the ball of his hand to his forehead with growl of frustration, eyes squeezing shut as though he’s fighting a physical pain. “Gaaah! Why are you making this so _complicated?_ ”

There is it. Breaking point.

It’s what Lucius was aiming for but the reality is much worse than he expected.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gentle again, reaching out to try and make amends for the distress he’s caused. But Ed opens his eyes in time to catch the motion and flinches away. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Lucius insists. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Well you’re _not_ so _stop!_ ” Ed cries, voice cracking, hand moving to ward Lucius away.

Lucius lowers his still reaching arm, swallowing back a rush of guilt and panic. He’s taken this too far. He meant to bring them closer by furthering his insight but instead his misguided efforts have only pushed Ed away.

Ed swallows too.

“I need some air,” he mutters, pushing past Lucius and heading for the exit.

“Wait. Wait,” Lucius calls, grabbing Ed’s arm. Another mistake. Ed yanks himself free and stares at Lucius, eyes wide with betrayal at the perceived assault. Lucius quickly lifts his palms in apology and keeps them high where Ed can see them, an unspoken promise not to touch him again without consent. “Don’t leave. Not now, not like this. Just, hear me out a little longer. Please.”

After a tense second or two, Ed curling his upper lip as he considers the plea, he finally lets out an angry breath of defeat.

“Fine,” Ed concedes, holding still. Waiting for Lucius to continue.

Lucius releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. To try and formulate the information he’s accrued into a coherent conclusion.

“You said earlier that you needed to be stronger,” he opens. “And before, in my car, you said the same thing. That you were trying to find the stronger, better person inside you.” His hands are still hovering, awkward now, between them, so Lucius clasps them together. “I can understand that. We all want to be the best version of ourselves. We’re all trying to unlock that potential.” He nods at Ed. “You just gave yours a name, that’s all. But what you call The Riddler, it’s not something, or someone, separate to you, Ed. It’s all still you.”

Ed is shaking his head before Lucius is even halfway finished. But there’s no fury in his expression anymore, he just looks tired.

“I _see_ him,” he says. “I talk to him. One time he saw me. How – if we’re the same, how is that possible?”

It’s an honest question. Lucius sees shadows of Ed’s earlier paralysed yearning in the other man’s eyes – the hope that Lucius will finally make sense of this for him. And god but Lucius wishes he could. Wishes he had concrete facts to offer. They must exist. Someone, surely, has a solution. If he could get Ed to a professional then maybe – but with the city like it is? They’ve more chance of finding killer clowns or vampire bats than a credited psychologist and that’s assuming Ed would even agree to treatment.

No, Lucius is all Ed has.

So he gives the only answer he can.

“I don’t know.” He hurries on when Ed sighs, trying to compensate for his ignorance. “But I do know that the mind is a weird and wonderful thing. Yours –” He stops to offer a smile. “Yours more than most.”

It takes a beat for Ed to even register the compliment. He’d been surprised at Haven too, when Lucius praised him for his assistance. For all his talk of being ‘the smartest man in Gotham,’ when someone actually credits his intelligence he seems unprepared. Even now his lips are snaking in a wobbly smile at best, his eyes a question.  

“The truth is we barely know a fraction of what the human brain is capable of,” Lucius continues. “Especially when under pressure.” And Ed – oh Ed has been under a lot of pressure, Lucius thinks. For a long long time. “You said that the different sides of you often assert themselves at times of intense emotion,” he recalls, thinking aloud, fleshing out his hypothesis. “I think something happened,” he nods. “Something shocking. Something out of the ordinary.” Ed’s gaze grows more focused. More intense. He’s the pupil now, waiting with bated breath for the conclusion of their lesson. “Maybe it happened to you,” Lucius goes on. “Maybe it was something you did.” Ed’s nostrils flair, just slightly, and he presses his lips together. “It could have been shooting Penguin, or it could’ve happened much earlier and that just exacerbated it. But whatever it was –” A wave of pity surges up in Lucius that he has to work hard to keep from his expression. “You didn’t think you could handle it alone. And you had no one you felt you could turn to for help.” The breath Ed draws in and hurries out is quick and quiet – barely noticeable. But Lucius sees it. A sign that he’s on the right track he hopes. “So the only logical way your mind could deal with that was to fabricate a whole other person to be your strength.” Ed doesn’t look like he plans to argue anymore, but Lucius doesn’t risk giving him the chance and pushes straight on. “But that strength you think The Riddler has? That’s _your_ strength, Ed. You don’t need to be a different person to access it, because it’s already a part of you. Everything The Riddler is, is a part of you.” This would be a logical point to end, but Lucius keeps going. With Ed so immersed in his delusion it seems wise to labour the point. “Everything The Riddler’s done is something Edward Nygma did, and everything Ed Nygma does is something The Riddler is also doing. Do you see that? Is this – is this making sense to you?” Ed doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t look away either. “You think you’re weak because of what Strange did to you, but I’m telling you you’re not,” Lucius insists. “You’ve been through hell and you’re still standing. Still fighting. You, as you are right now, are one of the strongest men I know. That’s who you are. No matter what name you use.”

There’s nothing more Lucius can add and so, finally, he draws to a close.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Granted, it’s not as bad as the screaming, but it’s enough to make Lucius’ heart once more begin to race. He has no idea if he’s helped or hurt. For all he knows this could have ended any and all good faith between Ed and himself and if so – the next time Ed wakes up screaming from nightmares he’ll be alone.

After an age Ed takes a deep breath and pulls away, unreadable gaze moving up as his head tilts back.

“I am Ed Nygma,” he breathes out. “And Ed Nygma… is The Riddler…”

It’s not quite a question, but there’s an upward lift to the words. Like Ed is feeling them out. Testing the sound.

“That means…” His head circles back down, eyes focused somewhere beyond Lucius’ shoulder. “Ed Nygma shot Oswald.” The tip of Ed’s tongue darts between his lips. “I shot Oswald,” he amends. “And I cut off Tabitha Galavan’s hand. I killed Officer Pinkney to frame Jim Gordon. I killed all those members of the Court of Owls when I was escaping. I killed those six academics and a bunch of Oswald’s men back when he was Mayor.” He tilts his head. “It was even me who killed that old lady in the wheelchair.”

“What?”

The unexpected, rapid fire roll call of Ed’s crimes has kept Lucius in stunned silence for the most part. But while he knows or has heard about most of the list, that last one is new. What old lady? And when?

“Never mind,” Ed mutters, flicking a hand in the air between them like he’s swatting a fly. “The point is –” His gaze snaps back to Lucius. “Ed _is_ a murderer.”  His eyes gleam. “Not a mass murderer, not of hundreds including children, but still – he is. I am. I am Edward Nygma. And I am a murderer.”

Lucius isn’t sure where this train of thought is headed. Nowhere good he imagines. But before he can turn his deepening frown into a protest Ed bursts into a flurry of breathless, happy laughter.

“Foxy!” he grins, head shaking a little, eyes full of wonder.

Then, in a blink, Lucius feels rough hands on his cheeks and hot, wet heat inside his mouth as Ed kisses him full on the lips.

There’s no time to react, to decide if he wants to sever or, heaven help him, savour the connection, because after only a dizzying couple of seconds Ed jerks back, still cradling Lucius’ face in his hands.

“Thank you,” he grins, eyes dancing. “I have been struggling to reconcile the different parts of me for _so long_. It’s been my biggest riddle. The hardest to solve. And you –” Practically vibrating with glee Ed crowds closer in, pressing their foreheads together. Lucius can taste his smile. “You’ve just given me the missing piece of the puzzle!”

He holds them like that a moment longer, shaking with silent, jubilant laughter. Then he springs away.

“I get it now!” he nods, wide-eyed, hands clasping together in his enthusiasm, fingers pinching the skin between his knuckles. “I have spent my whole life –” He waves a hand in a wide arc, ending with his arm fully outstretched. “– focused on what I’m _not_. Because that’s all anyone ever cared about. My so-called friends, my teachers, my father.” Ed’s lips curl as he spits out the latter, fingers curling into his palm. There’s a story there, Lucius thinks, but Ed doesn’t give him the chance to ask. “All they ever did was tell me what I couldn’t, what I _shouldn’t_ be. It was always – don’t be so loud, Ed; don’t fidget, Ed; you’re being too _quiet_ , Ed; why are you so lazy?; stop asking so many stupid questions; don’t be so weird. You’re never going to be amount to anything. You’re a liar and a cheat and why can’t you just be normal?” Ed stops to pant, hands back at his sides, eyes distant. Lost in the past. In a childhood Lucius is only beginning to grasp the hardships of. “I thought I had to choose. To find the lesser evil. I never considered the person I needed to be might be the one I _was_.”

The smile he gives Lucius is softer now, less manic, and it gives Lucius hope that, maybe, all this is for the better. That Ed really is coming to terms with who he is and what he’s done. That the knowledge might lead him towards a healthier, happier, more law abiding existence.

“It’s so _obvious_ now,” Ed goes on. Earnest and calm. “All the others, with their ‘do this’ and ‘don’t do that’ – they had it all wrong. Of course they did. They’re idiots.” He lifts his hands before his face, palms pressed together, and stares at Lucius over his fingertips. “We live in a world of villains and monsters.” As he speaks his hands angle forwards, eyes on Lucius never wavering, like he’s imparting a great secret and wants to ensure Lucius hears every word. “But that’s okay, because we’re _all_ villains and monsters. Not deep down somewhere hidden but everywhere. Every part of us. That’s just who we are. Who we _need to be_ to survive.”

“Ed, wait,” Lucius tries to interject. “I didn’t –”

“It’s alright you don’t need to explain anymore,” Ed tells him, sickeningly grateful, as he waves Lucius’ interruption away. “You were right. I am strong. All of me. Just as I am. I don’t need to be afraid of Strange. I don’t need to be afraid of any of them.” His eyes grow hard and cold, smile slipping, inch by calculated inch, into a thin line. “They should be afraid of me,” Ed concludes, voice dark and deep. And dangerous.

This is an outcome so far from Lucius’ intent he doesn’t know where to begin setting it right. All he can do is stare, numb with horror that he’s led the other man so deeply astray. Or not quite – running slowly up the base of his spine is a chill at the deadly figure Ed has become, the gaze across the top of his lenses nothing short of wicked. If you were looking through mugshots of serial killers this is what you’d expect to find. And it shouldn’t be a surprise – a serial killer is precisely what Ed is. But it’s still a shock somehow to see him this way.

Until, once more in the blink of an eye, Ed changes again. Gone is the grim, red-eyed stare, the cruel twist of his lips. Instead he’s all smiles, eyes warm and bright, hands clapping together in excitable, slightly goofy excitement.

“Now,” he mutters, scanning the room. “Where did I put my – ah!”

He points down at the mattress in triumph and strides over to grab his jacket. After shaking it out and patting it down several times he holds it at arm’s length and hums.

“I need a new suit,” he announces before shrugging the fabric over his shoulders. His fingers brush the sweaty tips of his hair as he adjusts the collar and he stops with a frown. “And a haircut,” he adds, giving his long, dishevelled locks a critical tug. “But – first things first.” He nods to Lucius. “Stay here, I won’t be long.”

It’s only as he starts to move with purpose back towards the exit that Lucius manages to find his voice.

“Where are you going?” His voice is embarrassingly thin, making the question a nagging high pitch. The demand of a needy lover.

If Ed finds anything unusual in the tone he doesn’t show it when he turns to answer

“To get supplies,” he says. “If we’re going to war I need to be better armed. Got to make sure I have an ace up my sleeve.”

His lips curve to one side – a private smile. Some kind of inside joke over a plan he’s yet to share. Lucius isn’t interested.

“Now?” he queries. “You should get some more sleep. You need to rest.”

Ed’s smile is wide and fond and just shy of patronising.

“Don’t worry,” he insists. “I can handle it.”

Because he’s convinced of his strength now. Thanks to Lucius.

He wants to tell Ed this wasn’t the strength he meant, but after the misguided path he’s already sent the man down he’s afraid any more well-meaning comments will only make things worse.

The conflict must show on his face because Ed is looking him over, curious.

“Hey,” he says, moving back. “Chin up.” He strokes a finger under Lucius’ chin to mimic the words. “What is born each night and dies at dawn?”

This isn’t one of Ed’s. Lucius spent many a pleasant evening, once upon a time, alongside Thomas and Martha at the opera, so he recognises the line. The first of three riddles the eponymous Princess Turandot requires an answer to from her suitors in order for them to earn her hand in marriage.

Of course Ed would be a fan.

“Hope,” he answers. “According to Puccini.”

A hint of pride bleeds into Ed’s smile.

“And this is our darkest hour. Which always comes before dawn. So we have hope in abundance.”

This is meant as encouragement, Lucius realises. Ed has mistaken his gloom for apprehension over the situation at large and is trying to lift his spirits.

“We’re going to make it out of this, you’ll see,” Ed goes on. “We’re going to take back this city and once we have? No-one will be able to take it from us ever again.”

He rubs a hand over Lucius’ shoulder and squeezes and once again Lucius has no words.

Ed must not be expecting a response because after a beat he nods, satisfied, and turns to leave, twirling a hand in the air like a conductor as he walks and humming the beginnings of _Nessun Dorma_.

A heavy, relentless sense of dread circles Lucius as he watches Ed slip into the shadows and out of sight.

Make it out of this?

No. They won’t.

They won’t because they’re all already lost.

In the opera the riddle’s answer isn’t a happy one. It’s the bleak assessment of someone so cold and callous, so hardened by the injustice of life, they believe hope a delusion dispelled by the light of day.

Left alone in the dark while the man he’d been trying to help, to _save_ , goes out to damn even further whatever is left of his already black and broken soul, Lucius can’t help but wonder if the assessment has merit.

Because once the fight is over and the smoke clears, even with Eduardo and his team beaten back, even with the city’s link to the mainland restored, what hope is there left for Gotham really?

Tired and shaken and filled with a sorrow so deep it seems to ache from his very bones, it seems to Lucius that when all this is over it won’t just be Ed waking to a living nightmare.

Their darkest hour may be about to end.

But when dawn breaks on Gotham City, one way or another they’re all going to wake up screaming.


End file.
